We Are All Fools in Dancing Shoes
by Austennerdita2533
Summary: A Pride and Prejudice outtake book/movie blurb set just before Mr. Darcy asks Elizabeth Bennet to dance at the Netherfield Ball. The words "dancing encourages affection" haunting him and instigating deep reflection. And later, propelling him forward with the courage to act.
1. The Offer Darcy Bestows

It was once revealed to him in biting repartee that _dancing encourages affection_.

But of what kind of affection may dancing fortify? The senseless flirting? The fleeting? The erroneous meet-me-by-the-church-bells-at-midnight elopement? Or how about the turbulent, passionate _nightmare_ that refuses to be acquiesced by anything besides irrational _my feelings will not be repressed_ speeches and proposals of marriage?

Mr. Darcy ponders all of these questions in the storminess of his introspective mind as he monitors Elizabeth Bennet and her fine eyes from across the room. He stands near the fireplace all tall and silent and stoic. Staring. Staring sensuously and not-at-all subtly at the dark-haired girl in the flowing white gown with pearls dangling from her earlobes. At the bewitching young woman whose witty remarks tumble from lips and splash sarcasm across cheeks in the most flattering of pinks. Brightening the room with white teeth. And diverting poise. And laughter. And liveliness no harshness will dare deplete.

And before he knows it, Mr. Darcy's striding across the floor—in the middle long before he realizes he has begun—weaving around twirling couples and silly, giggling girls with that refined, purposeful strut he's perfected. Shoulders back, head tall, he's approaching the beautiful fairy who eludes his tired attempts to woo, to incite something other than indifference.

She sips daintily from a saucer and chats idly—unconcernedly—with Miss Lucas near a bowl of punch. His sudden appearance casts a shadow over their liberal chatter with the force of a slamming door. Words wilt against her mouth. Eyes shuffle, dropping to the floor.

 _Miss Bennet must suspect what comes next, surely_.

Surely she must expect him to request the honor of taking her by the hand? Escorting her down the floor? Marking her as his esteemed partner for two lovely but brutal songs? Surely she must see that he seeks to partake in a ritual he believes to be fit for savages? Not for his sake, but for _hers_.

Surely she must perceive the spell behind his taciturn sighs? The symptom that is _her_ responsible for his watchful, twinkling eyes? The reason for his blundering, painful attempts to focus on book passages and letters to Georgiana in a manner of hushed disguise?

 _I am in agony. I desire to win your affection, can't you see_? his miserable, toiling heart seems to squeak. _Will a waltz suffice? Maybe two? How about three?_

He bows in salutation to the two young ladies. Gulps. Swallows back that last festering acorn of reserve, catches her withering gaze and says, "If you are not otherwise engaged, may I have the honor of the next two dances, Miss Elizabeth?"

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 **AUTHOR'S NOTE : I'm BEYOND obsessed with all things Jane Austen (it's a problem haha), so this was a fun, random P&P outtake I concocted. Thanks for reading!**

 **Reviews are lovely.**

 **xx Ashlee Bree**


	2. The Reply Elizabeth Bemoans

The sting from that _barely tolerable_ still lingers in her memory. Abounds. Taunting her in whispered sprigs that scrape away serenity with each aloof monosyllable his distaste casts in her direction. Displeasure and censure flick off his black eyelashes in bullseye darts while he observes her from a populated corner of the ballroom; his posture stern and stiff, his eyes bold, brooding, and unrelenting as they unstitch her flaws for acute inspection. Judgment. He unbinds the country stays Longbourne has fastened against her back to expose lack of pedigree and connection. Not with fingers, not with words, but with haughty, unforgiving self-righteousness. And silence.

Silence so direct yet deafening it fires musket balls from his closed lips. From his creased brow. No—neither Elizabeth nor her society meet his "elite" standards. Nor time. Nor conversation, apparently.

 _Hateful, pompous man_ , she grumbles inaudibly.

But while Elizabeth refuses to allow this Darcy-stinger to consume her, it _does_ infect her...profoundly. With dislike that's implacable. to. the. core.

 _Perhaps his 'good opinion once lost, is lost forever,'_ she reflects, _but my first impression once blemished, remains blemished_ always _._

Obstinacy more than reason has hammered finality into the bricks of her mind regarding Mr. Darcy's personality. Unyielding Elizabeth remains in her opinion of him, contending that second-chance redemption for someone who thinks himself superior of everything and of everyone is—and forever will be— _impossible_. His arrogance is insufferable; and he, despite his wealth and prestige, is nothing but intolerable.

 _End of page. End of chapter. End of story_ , she concludes to herself with a huff.

"Take care, dear Lizzy," her father had remarked once when she was a child, his wire-rimmed spectacles peeking out from behind a folio of Shakespeare, "for little in this world heals worse than wounded pride. It can scar a person in acute degrees."

And perhaps Mr. Bennet was right.

Because now, when their paths cross, all she perceives is Barely Tolerable Snobbery adorned in a satin-trimmed waistcoat, cravat, and golden cuff links. All she feels is sorrow for Wickham, her retaliatory tongue uncoiling and hissing at first mention of Mr. Darcy—ready to accost, accost, accost.

And yet, when this same gentleman materializes between herself and Charlotte Lucas with a gallant bow and an unexpected proposal at the Netherfield Ball, Elizabeth finds herself at a loss. Surprise smothering wit against her throat like a scarf all too restricting. Her pronounced stammer suddenly stamping out the animated sharpness her voice usually betrays in answer to him.

 _Mr. Too Good For Country Misses and Public Assemblies wants to dance…with me?_

"Why I—" Elizabeth's wide-eyed and blinking away shock-fog "—I had not thought that—" stumbling and staggering on coherency; words choking, choking, choking on rotten air too thick to breathe. "You certainly cannot—I know you're disinclined to—please understand that I—" she falters.

Oh, the shame! Elizabeth's flustered and floundering. Disdaining the hitch in her speech, abhorring the colour seeping into her cheeks…the heat! That awful, unpardonable _heat._

"—I thank you, yes," her twitching lips blurt out at long last. "I am not otherwise engaged, sir."

Outrage pools in her stomach at the sound of her own mouth's blundering betrayal, but she sucks it back—folding it away beneath flowing chiffon fabric and civility—to lower her chin and curtsy. Resigning herself to a fate she once fervently promised to avoid…for she's just submitted to dance with Mr. Darcy.

 _What a fool, I am, what fool,_ she laments. _W_ _hat a bewilderment-knotted fool!_

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 **AUTHOR'S NOTE : I'd originally only intended to write Darcy's thoughts preceding the big ask-her-to-dance moment, but I liked the parallelism/contrast of writing it from Lizzie's perspective as well. I can't decide if I should/will proceed or not. Anyway, thanks for reading! :)**

 **Reviews are lovely.**

 **xx Ashlee Bree**


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